Chapter 36: The Merle Problem
Sunday Morning - 6:47 AM
Daryl Dixon returned at dawn, dragging three squirrels and a raccoon. He'd been hunting since yesterday, missed the whole Atlanta drama. Walked into camp expecting his brother, found strangers instead.
"Who the hell are you people?" He pointed his crossbow at Madison, who'd been starting the morning fire.
"Survivors," she said calmly. "From California. We joined up with Rick yesterday."
"Rick? Who's Rick?"
"Rick Grimes. Shane's partner from before. He was in a coma, woke up, found his way here."
"Yeah? Where's Merle?"
Madison looked uncomfortable. "You should talk to Rick."
"I'm talking to you. Where's my brother?"
I emerged from my tent, Glock visible but holstered. "Atlanta. Department store rooftop. Handcuffed to a pipe."
Daryl spun, crossbow now aimed at me. "The fuck you say?"
"Your brother tried to take over the scavenging group. Got violent. They restrained him. Then the building got surrounded by walkers, and they had to evacuate. T-Dog dropped the key to the handcuffs. Merle's still there."
"You left him."
"I wasn't there. But yes, they left him."
"I'll kill 'em. I'll kill every last one of 'em."
"Or you could help us mount a rescue. Your brother's tough. He's probably still alive."
"How the hell you know that?"
"Because men like Merle don't die easy. He'll find a way."
Rick appeared, pulling on his shirt, drawn by the commotion. "You must be Daryl. I'm Rick Grimes. I'm sorry about your brother."
"Sorry don't bring him back."
"No. But we can. We're going back to Atlanta today. Retrieve Merle, get the weapons I lost. You can come."
Daryl lowered the crossbow slightly. "Why would you do that? Already left him once."
"Because I don't leave people behind. And because those weapons are important. We need them."
"Who's going?"
"Me, Glenn, T-Dog. Maybe one more."
"I'm going," Daryl said immediately.
"I'm going too," I added.
Rick frowned. "You don't have to."
"Four people are better than three. And I've proven I can handle Atlanta."
"This is different. This is extraction from a hostile building in broad daylight."
"Then we'll need all the help we can get."
Shane appeared, face thunderous. "You're going back? After yesterday? That's suicide."
"That's responsibility."
"That's pride. You're not thinking clearly, Rick. You just got back. You're not ready to lead a mission."
"I'm not leading. I'm participating. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
The two men faced off. Rick calm, centered. Shane angry, defensive. The camp was gathering, sensing confrontation.
"We're going," Rick said firmly. "Anyone who wants to volunteer can. Anyone who wants to stay can. But we're not abandoning Merle."
"Even though he's a racist asshole who nearly got everyone killed?"
"Even though."
Shane's hand moved toward his gun. "This is a mistake."
"Then it's my mistake to make."
For a moment, I thought Shane would draw. Thought we'd have violence right here, right now. But Dale climbed down from the RV, interposing himself.
"Boys. Let's not do anything we can't take back." He looked at Rick. "You're sure about this?"
"I am."
"Then go. But come back. Your son just got his father back. Don't make him lose you again."
Rick's face softened. "I won't. I promise."
We loaded the cube van an hour later. Weapons, ammunition, medical supplies. Glenn mapped the route—different approach this time, avoiding yesterday's disaster.
"We go in from the north," he explained. "Less walkers, clearer streets. Park two blocks from the department store, approach on foot. Quick in, quick out."
"What if he's not there?" T-Dog asked.
"Then we look for signs. Blood trail, tracks, whatever. Either way, we don't leave without answers."
Daryl was sharpening his knife obsessively, sliding the blade across a whetstone with methodical precision. "If my brother's dead because you people panicked, someone's paying for it."
"Noted," Rick said. "But blame after rescue. Focus now."
Madison pulled me aside before we left. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Risking yourself for people who aren't your responsibility."
"Merle might be valuable. Tracker, hunter, survivor. Worth rescuing."
"Or he's a racist psychopath who'll cause more problems than he solves."
"Probably both."
"Then why go?"
Because Daryl needs to see his brother's fate firsthand. Because saving Merle—or failing to—will establish credibility with Daryl, who's one of the best survivors in the group. Because the script says this is important.
"Because Daryl will be useful long-term. This investment pays dividends."
"You're always calculating."
"Keeps me alive."
She touched my arm. "Just make sure it keeps you alive. Not just strategically positioned."
"I'll try."
Alicia was waiting by the van. "You're really going back into that death trap."
"Apparently."
"Why? Merle's not worth it."
"Daryl is. And Rick is. Building trust with them matters."
"More than staying alive?"
"Trust keeps you alive. It's an investment."
She looked frustrated. "When did survival become a business strategy?"
"When the world ended and everyone became an asset or a liability."
"That's bleak."
"That's honest."
We climbed into the van. Glenn drove, Rick beside him. Daryl, T-Dog, and I crammed in the back with the supplies. The engine started, and we pulled out of camp toward Atlanta.
[ TIMER: 51:22:17 ]
Two days, three hours. Still comfortable. But Ed Peletier was still alive back at camp, still hurting Carol, still deserving infection. I'd need to handle that soon. Before we left for wherever came next.
The farm. That's what comes next. Hershel's farm. Sophia gets lost, they search for weeks, she's been dead the whole time. Carl gets shot, Rick meets Hershel. The barn full of walkers.
I knew the script. Question was whether I could change it. Whether I should change it.
"You're quiet," Daryl said. "Thinking about what we'll find?"
"Something like that."
"My brother's tough. Toughest guy I know. If anyone can survive being handcuffed on a roof surrounded by walkers, it's him."
"I believe it."
"But?"
"But survival changes people. Makes them harder. Meaner. Whatever Merle was before, he'll be worse now."
"He's always been mean."
"Then he'll be vicious."
Daryl didn't argue. Just went back to sharpening his knife.
Glenn navigated through the suburbs, avoiding the densest walker concentrations. The approach was cleaner than yesterday—fewer obstacles, fewer dead. We parked three blocks from the department store.
"On foot from here," Glenn said. "Quiet approach. No gunfire unless absolutely necessary."
We moved through streets choked with abandoned cars and corpses. Some were rotting. Some were walking. We avoided them all.
The department store came into view. The roof access was visible—a metal door, closed. No movement.
"He's not up there," T-Dog said.
"He might be inside."
"Or he's gone."
"Only one way to find out."
We reached the building, cleared the ground floor. More walkers than yesterday—they'd wandered in after we left. But manageable. We fought through to the stairwell.
The roof door was ajar. Blood streaked the handle. More blood on the stairs.
"Merle!" Daryl called. "You up here?"
No answer.
We climbed. The roof was empty except for the pipe where Merle had been handcuffed. The handcuffs were still there, closed tight.
On a severed hand.
Daryl dropped to his knees, picked up the hand, stared at it. His brother's hand, still wearing rings, gnawed at the wrist where Merle had cut through bone with—
"Belt," Rick said, pointing. "He used his belt as a tourniquet. Then cut through his own wrist with—" He found the hacksaw, bloodstained. "With this."
"He's alive," Daryl breathed. "Crazy bastard cut off his own hand and walked out of here."
"Looks that way."
"Where would he go?"
"Downstairs. Maybe outside. He'd need to cauterize the wound, find supplies." Rick scanned the roof. "There's a trail. Blood drops. We can follow it."
We tracked Merle's escape route down the stairwell, through the building, to the ground floor. More blood—less now, he'd gotten the bleeding under control. Through a side door into an alley.
Where the blood trail ended.
"Lost him," T-Dog said.
"Or he found a vehicle," Glenn suggested. "Drove off."
Daryl was staring at his brother's severed hand. "I gotta find him."
"We will," Rick promised. "But not today. We came for him and the weapons. Let's get the weapons, get back to camp. Then we organize a proper search."
"That could take days."
"And searching blind could take weeks. We do this smart."
Daryl looked like he wanted to argue. Then he carefully wrapped his brother's hand in cloth, put it in his pack. "Alright. We get the guns. But then we search. No delays."
"No delays," Rick agreed.
We found Rick's bag of weapons in the alley where he'd dropped it—rifles, pistols, ammunition. All of it intact. Loaded it into the van.
The drive back was quiet. Daryl sat with his brother's hand, processing. T-Dog looked guilty. Glenn watched the road. Rick drove, focused.
I sat in the back, thinking about Merle. About how he'd return eventually, consumed by rage and revenge. About how his presence would destabilize the camp, create conflicts, force confrontations.
Another variable. Another problem to manage. But also an opportunity. Merle's violence is predictable. Can be redirected. Used.
We reached the quarry camp at noon. The reception was mixed—relief we'd survived, disappointment we hadn't found Merle.
Daryl showed Shane his brother's hand. "This is on you. You panicked, you left him."
"T-Dog dropped the key—"
"You left him." Daryl's voice was flat, dangerous. "You're lucky I need this camp. But I'll remember."
He walked away, hand still cradled like a relic.
Rick distributed the weapons—rifles to Andrea and Shane, pistols to those who could shoot, ammunition rationed carefully.
Madison found me unloading supplies. "How bad?"
"Merle cut off his own hand and escaped. He's out there somewhere, one-handed and homicidal."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. When he comes back—and he will come back—it's going to be a problem."
"Can you handle it?"
"Depends on what 'handle it' means. Kill him? Probably. Control him? Maybe. Use him? That's the goal."
"You really do see everyone as assets."
"Everyone is assets. The only question is whether they're positive or negative."
"And Merle?"
"Negative that can be redirected. A weapon pointing at enemies instead of allies."
"If you're wrong?"
"Then I'll put him down. Simple as that."
She didn't look reassured. But she nodded anyway.
[ TIMER: 49:47:08 ]
Two days. Just under. Still time. Still options.
But the timer was always counting. And eventually, I'd run out of convenient villains to infect.
Cross that bridge when you come to it. For now, survive. Integrate. Build trust.
The game was just beginning.
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